


Come Back to Me

by RJEzrilou (AnandaRunner)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Trenchcoat feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnandaRunner/pseuds/RJEzrilou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set mid-season 7, sometime after Levi!Cas and before Lucifer drove Sam batshit crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back to Me

Dean tries to hide it from Sam.  
  
He mindlessly surfs the internet in the shitty motel of the week until he’s sure Sam’s asleep. Then he tugs his boots back on, retrieves his keys from the bedside table, and heads outside to his Baby.

He slots the key into the trunk and turns, lifting the lid with practiced ease. He slides the crossbar and empty gas can to the side and reaches behind the toolbox into the deep left corner of the trunk. When he finally touches the coarse fabric, he grasps it in both hands and pulls it from the darkness. Holding it gently, Dean turns and takes a seat on the bumper.

Ever since that day the Leviathan walked Cas’ body into the lake and that filthy trenchcoat floated back to the bank, Dean has kept it folded away, hidden, protected, in the trunk of the Impala. Something has convinced Dean that if he loses that stupid coat that he’ll have lost Castiel forever. He can’t—won’t—accept that Cas is dead, so he’ll keep this coat safe.

Dean figures Sam probably knows the trenchcoat is in the trunk, but he’s also pretty sure Sam has enough going on that he hasn’t thought twice about it. But Dean still tries to keep his “alone time” with the coat to times when Sam is busy or sleeping.

Some nights he drinks and curses at the ratted, bloodstained garment. “Dumb son of a bitch,” he’d said, and part of him still believes it. Other nights he talks as if his friend is seated beside him still. “Why didn’t you just ask for my help, Cas?” he whispers into the darkness. Still other nights he spends resisting the urge to let tears fall at the loss of someone he considers a brother. Tonight…he simply sits quietly, thumb idly tracing the stitching in the fabric, and listens to the buzzing of the streetlights.

His thoughts drift over the events of the last year. Memories of Ben and Lisa, even of Samuel and Eve. He remembers every time he saw Cas, the angel had mentioned the war in heaven and Dean…..Dean had dismissed Cas’ problems as less than his own. He supposes, thinking back on it all, that it was kind of a fucked up way to treat someone he valued.

What was that saying about hindsight being 20/20?

Dean thinks he’d have helped Cas if he had asked, but he’s not sure, not really. Self-obsessed. Selfish.  _Yeah, describes me perfectly_ , he muses.

He lifts the coat and buries his face in its folds. Underneath the smell of tepid water and the copper of blood, he inhales smells so very Cas that he’s again overwhelmed with the renewed feeling of loss. His senses are flooded with rockrose and anise, ambrette and vetiver. Air and earth and ash and light and  _Castiel_ , and Dean has never felt more alone.

Dean sighs quietly, shaking his head as he murmurs, “I miss you, you jackass. So if you can, if there’s any way at all, come back to me. Please.”

He stows the trenchcoat in the depths of the Impala’s trunk once more and shuts the trunk. Before he reenters the motel room, he searches the stars for something—anything—and offers one last silent prayer.  _Come back to me, Castiel._


End file.
